writer, archaeologist, and advocate of empathy in all things. lover of french fries, southern gothic stories, handwritten letters, and waterfalls.

Jan 3, 2016

Writing Exercise: Jan. 3

I didn’t want to write the letter, the one explaining why I couldn’t – why I didn’t want – to be friends with her. Reanne just kept talking about it; how it was the right thing to do; how I couldn’t just drop someone as a friend; I had to be open and honest and communicate. It’s too bad that the me now can’t just drop by and help out the me then, step in and tell Reanne to shut it and let me do what I want. That’s what I regret most about it all, that I was such a damn pushover. Have I really changed so much since then that I find the earlier version of myself so disgusting? I’m not saying what I did wasn’t mean, wasn’t completely heartless, I just wonder if I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for Reanne. She always held the strings, crissing and crossing them into her own little manipulative cat’s cradle, all the while acting as if she was just so superior, so enlightened. A true sign of poseur: if you insist to be one thing in particular, you tend to be exactly the opposite.